THE BEREAVED FATHER TO HIS SON.
Dear miniature of her I loved and lost,
Come to thy father’s almost broken heart!
Come, lay thy lovely head upon my breast,
And let me smooth thy golden ringlets down,
As I have seen thy sainted mother do!
Ah me! those dear soft hands lie mouldering,
Now clasp’d upon her still, unconscious breast!
Would I could sing for thee, my orphan boy,
As I have heard thy sainted mother sing!
O! we shall never hear her sing again!
The music of our fireside is hush’d—
The silver voice that cheer’d us, now is mute.
I pity thee, my boy! for well I know
This mournful silence sends an icy chill
To every heart within these lonely walls,
That lately echoed to angelic tones.
Methought I heard thee lisp thy mother’s name,
As she had taught her darling boy to do;
O! say it not again—’twill break my heart!
I see deep sadness in thy violet eyes,
As though thou knew’st thy kindest friend was gone.
Yes—she is gone—poor boy! poor orphan boy!
Too soon thou’lt find that thou art motherless;
For who will love thee with a mother’s love—
That sacred, changeless, deep, untiring love?
She loves thee still, my boy! and it may be
She watches o’er thee now with tender care,
A guardian angel to her own dear child!
My wife! my cherish’d wife! my bosom friend!
If thou art near us, whisper peaceful words,
And teach me how to bear my Father’s stroke!
If ever, ’mid the swelling tides of grief,
My spirit, struggling in the stormy wave,
Lets go her only anchor, faith in God,
And blindly plunges near the dang’rous shoals
Of proud rebellion ’gainst th’ almighty will,
Or total self-abandonment to grief,
Then, sainted spirit! bear me back again,
By some unknown, mysterious influence,
Such as the ministering angels use!
O! sigh not thus, my dear, my gentle boy!
Nor let the sad contagion of my grief
Infect so soon thy young unconscious breast.
’Tis strange to see thee gazing silently
Where there is nought to catch thy infant eye,
With downcast look, and grave abstracted air,
As though thou hadst th’ experience of years,
And wert reflecting on the woes of life.
The silken fringes round thy sweet blue eyes
Are almost resting on thy downy cheek,
And thy fair head reposes on my breast,
My lonely, sorrowing, bereaved breast,
With all the silent, touching eloquence
So often felt where not a word is said.
Thy angel mother may be near thee, boy!
Communing with thy untaught spirit now,
And teaching thee the rudiments of thought.
O Death! thou art th’ ambassador of Heaven,
To wean us from th’ allurements of the world;
May not thy visits ever be in vain!
The storm, the calm, the sunshine, and the cloud,
Must each alternately my portion be,
And all to me their sacred lessons teach;
O! may I learn the varied lessons well!
The youthful stranger in a foreign land
Soon learns to know where happiness is found.
Should Pleasure lure him to some shining place,
And surly Disappointment meet him there,
If he is wise, he shuns that path again,
Because the meteor sparkles to deceive.
But I, a stranger and a pilgrim here,
Must learn the same sad lesson o’er and o’er,
That all is changeful in this dying world.
I clasp a shadow to my foolish heart,
Then weep to find my arms are empty still!
O! could I but remember that on earth
My dearest treasures are a loan from Heaven,
And may at any moment be recall’d,
I should prepare my heart for each sad loss.
My darling boy! I must not love thee so;
Dear miniature of her I loved and lost,
I’ll try to feel that I may lose thee too!
Yet, joyful thought! such treasures cannot die,
The time will come I’ll find them all again.
January 4, 1841.